


Smoke and Gunpowder

by gayexol



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angry Sex, Bandits & Outlaws, Biting, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Enemies to Lovers, Gunplay, Hand Jobs, Insults, M/M, Making Out, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scratching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8585725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayexol/pseuds/gayexol
Summary: Jesse McCree is deathly loyal to the Deadlock gang, and he doesn't mind if he needs to pick off a few stray weeds from their rival gang, the Junkers. But, he makes a fatal error- he becomes too interested.And he just can't say no to Jamison's pretty little face.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Herokittykat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herokittykat/gifts).



> its 1 am what am i doing  
> shoutout to my boy torbjorn roy  
> love ya pal  
> long live the high boom discord chat  
> i love cowboys

The fraying edges of McCree’s hat obscure his eyes, shadow making his face invisible, indistinguishable.

But he can feel that punk’s stare on him a mile away. No doubt he’s grinning like a madman too, posture relaxed and lanky against the Midwestern sky. A change in the wind picks up, dust swirling around Jesse’s legs, painting his boots.

He notices the way his own poncho shifts, a tiny, subtle movement. The gleaming metal of his Peacemaker shines in the light, his fingers itching to curl around the blood-stained handle. The old, rusted bell glimmering high up from its perch in the clock tower chimes.

It’s high noon.

The dry, scraping brown heat of New Mexico threatens to suffocate the both of them if neither draws their pistols, the overwhelming sun blanketing them in sweat.

That punk is _still_ grinning at him.

Jamison, right? He’s heard the name whispered among the Deadlock gang, name sliding from person to person like poison.

Jamie’s got a different smile. It’s, well, interesting. It’s a smile that could cut you right open, jagged teeth slipping from cracked lips. He’s just clueless, doesn’t not what he’s dealing with _at all,_ so why does McCree have to plant a bullet in his skull?

It’s silent. Neither of them moves.

“You ready to end this, or what?” Jesse shouts over the howling wind, a tumbleweed rolling past his feet.

Jamie takes a step back, tipping the bridge of his hat, and saunters out of sight, ducking behind main street’s broken and splintered buildings and into the dusty horizon. The frown on McCree’s face becomes noticeable.

Should’ve killed him. Damn shame, the punk had literally blown half of his gang away. He could still ride over and get Jamie now; his horse was barely a few feet away.

McCree doesn’t move. His fingers still hover over the gun in his pocket. He sighs, a low, sorrowful sound that just manages to be heard over the wind.

He couldn’t have killed him. He didn’t want to.

 

\-----------

 

Jesse sits himself in front of the fire, the Deadlock gang finding a clearing with just enough cover to shelter themselves for the night. His men were already knocked out, stretched out on ratty old cots and blankets, huddled close to the fire pit in order to escape the coldness of midnight out in the desert.

He pokes absently at the roaring flames with a stick, his knees tucked into himself, and glances upwards, eyes twinkling with light from a million different pinpoints of stars in the sky, all fighting to be seen through the smoke rising from the fire next to him.

Coyotes howl in the distance, an eerie echo filled with hunger and fury rolling across the sun-bleached sands. Jesse licks his lips, dropping his stick and fiddling with his fingers as he exhales.

The chirping of so many bugs is all to be heard in the vast darkness, his only refuge from the shadows being the circle of light around the makeshift camp. McCree wonders if they’ll get caught by the Sheriff- being this close to town and all. It wasn’t like they were innocent men. None of them are.

McCree turns his attention to the night surrounding him, eyes focusing on the way into town. Far away, but close enough that Jesse can feel the shock wave rumble his bones, an explosion rocks the star-lit sky.

Jesse stands up immediately, an automatic instinct, listening and watching carefully for any more blasts. He feels his body tense, skin prickling underneath his clothes, the hair on the back of his neck sticking up. His gang doesn’t stir.

There it is again. A closer, heavier boom, tinges of smoke obscuring the horizon.

A shower of sparks rain down upon a field just outside of the town. 

McCree doesn’t bother saddling up his horse- he just sprints to Main Street, rocks and dirt churning under his heavy boots. He drags his feet as fast as he can go, patting his side to make sure his Peacemaker and bullets haven’t slipped out from their holster. 

It has to be him. Jamison. Who else would it be? 

The winding trail back to town doesn’t do him any favors, but in a little over a few minutes he finally steps out, alone, onto the street, windows dark and people asleep. 

His lungs feel like they’re full of ice, his steady pulse making him feel lightheaded as he regains some composure. Jesse quickly scans the midnight-covered corners of Dual Spires, light from the full moon bathing the wooden buildings in pale, ghostly shadows. 

He has to be here, but the question is _where?_  

There. A silver buckle glints in the distance, catching his eye. He’s somewhere over by the jail. 

Bastard.

In one quick flurry of steps, McCree walks across the road and along the sides of the general store, hand unconsciously diving into his holster and drawing his gun, the heaviness and cool metal of it against his fingers grounding him.

Jesse makes his way up the road, peering into stores and back alleys as the rickety, worn-down Jail sign swings off one hook in the breeze. The heavy footsteps of his boots and the swarms of cicadas buzzing in the sparse woodland around him are, Jesse notices, the only sounds he hears. Otherwise, it’s silent. Empty. Barren.

The last whisper of the wind dying out dips around the inside of his ear, a somber tone of warning, just loud enough to make McCree feel on edge. Anticipating a noise, a movement, Jamie himself. His eyes play tricks on him, paranoia shifting the dark night around him into shapes; humanoids, flowing around corners, spreading across the town like ink underwater. It’s too damn dark to even see.

A brick slams against the barber shop’s wooden siding on the other side of the street, bouncing off and hitting the ground with a dull thud. McCree’s head swivels in that direction, his pistol in front of himself like a shield.

“Show yourself,” Jesse grumbles angrily.

He freezes in his tracks. McCree realizes much too late that, _shit,_ _Jamison knows where he is now_.

“Right behind you, prick,” a hoarse, callous voice seethes.

Jesse finds himself shoved up against the side of the jail, back slamming into the wood and making him flinch. Finally, the punk ass shows his face.

Jamison has a grip on each one of his wrists, pressing them hard against the back of the wall, but McCree isn’t worried, not in the slightest. What Jamie might have in height, Jesse more than compensates with sheer muscle.

But he lets the guy have his fun, noticing the way his eyes dip down for the shortest fraction of a second and linger on his parted lips. Jesse just smiles, halfway between a smirk and a sneer, expression full of practiced ease and affability.

McCree could’ve sworn that it was cold outside tonight, but the temperature between the two of them seems to skyrocket, Jamie’s dark brown eyes getting chased away by his pupils until only a thin ring of color is left. Jesse tries to ignore the fact that if he licked his suddenly to-dry lips, he’d end up nearly kissing the rival gang member in front of him.

Jamison tilts his head to the side, expecting Jesse to protest or struggle where there is none. McCree’s own resolve makes his heartbeat pick up again. Why?

“Apologizes for the inconvenience, but I’ve got places to go,” Jesse whispers smoothly, the heavy Southern drawl of his accent trailing on the edges of his words.

“No, you don’t,” Jamie answers so matter of fact that the bravado McCree exerts dims a bit. Jamison goes to pull something out of his holster and that’s when Jesse decides to break the charade, using his now free arm to push the other man around, and then uses his full weight to keep him pinned down.

“Not so fast cowboy,” McCree laughs, noticing how the Junker shrinks down.

“Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?” Jamison asks innocently enough, giving Jesse that shit eating grin from before.

“Take a wild guess,” McCree replies, not taking his eyes off Jamie as he raises his Peacemaker to the hard line of his ribs, pushing the metal in hard enough so he’ll know it hurts.

He doesn’t overlook the way Jamie seems to burn hotter, grow more interested. Captivated.

Their chests are touching, and suddenly, Jesse’s nose brushes against Jamie’s. The outlaw’s lips part the slightest bit. Maybe, maybe he’s taking this too far. They’re getting too _friendly_ for a pair of criminals intent on murdering the other.

They're far too close, at least too much to back away now. 

He didn’t register it before, but now Jesse can swear he feels a hand trailing up his side, grabbing at his jaw. And then, and only then, Jesse decides that he _never_ takes anything too far, and presses his lips to Jamie’s. 

He slams his eyes shut hard, hard enough to hurt, not caring that Jamison is nearly scratching his face off and that there could be a bomb stuffed inside the Junker’s coat, because the way Jamie feels against him is more than enough to set fire racing underneath his skin.

McCree kisses him like you’d think an outlaw would: confidently and powerfully, full of authority and dominance and just that tiny hint of neediness. His hand rests on the back of Jamie’s neck, and Jesse’s fingers found their way to thread back through his hair, thick and wavy and soft.

He pulls back, not from regret but more from disbelief at his actions, and the air is scarce in his lungs and his pulse is beating a steady staccato rhythm that makes him shudder.

It doesn’t take a second longer for Jamie to pull Jesse back again, fingers twisting into the fabric of McCree’s jacket as they both surge into the kiss, making his head dizzy with it. Kissing quickly turns into something deeper, open mouthed and impatient, Jesse fighting the urge to growl against Jamison’s lips.

They’re messy, _he’s_ messy, but he could care less judging by the way Jamie is somehow pulling him closer, enough so Jesse’s thigh is slotted between his legs. Jamison takes a rare second to breathe, to give Jesse a wild-eyed look. There’s a crackle in the air so electric that Jesse swears it feels like lightening, the unfamiliar desire to kiss Jamie again and again making his legs feel weak.

Their chests are heaving in an attempt to regain their breath, McCree no longer forgetting about the pistol still pushed up onto Jamie’s chest. He lazily places one hand around the small of the Junker’s back, using the other to move the gun upwards, hard metal edge scraping against Jamison’s skin.  

Jamie can’t look away.

McCree has him pinned against the wall of the _jail_ for Christ’s sake, a gun on the vein in his neck. He wonders what it feels like, to have metal against your pulse. Wonders what it's like, thinking you could be an inch away from death. Jamie doesn’t make a move, slack lips red and busted already.

There’s no bullets in his gun and only McCree knows it.

Jamison’s gaze is half-lidded and glassy as he leans his head back, tilted a bit to the right, leaving the dip of his neck exposed. He doesn't even try to push the muzzle of the pistol away, he just waits for something. For McCree to do _something_.

He obliges.

Using the Peacemaker to keep Jamie’s head titled, McCree sinks his teeth into the flesh of his shoulder, right above the collarbone. Jamison’s fingers clutch tighter at the back of his poncho, him giving out a started gasp as Jesse kisses the deep indentions.

Without thinking, he snakes a free hand down the hard line of Jamison’s hip, thumb caught on the edge of his trousers. He smiles despite himself when Jamie’s eyebrows furrow, face ingrained with a heated desire.

“You don't touch me, I'll take that gun and off you myself,” he spits, voice strained and _worked up_.

“No bullets in this one, darlin’,” Jesse laughs, ignoring the way Jamie’s eyes widen and instead immediately tucking his gun back in its holster, shoving his hand down Jamison’s jeans, and putting his palm over his mouth in one fluid motion.

Good thing he did that too, because Jamie lets out a groan so low and guttural that McCree’s half convinced it's a growl.

Instantly, Jamie peels off Jesse’s hand and tugs him back, their lips crashing together again in a way Jesse didn't know he missed.

His thumb traces the underside of Jamison’s cock, harshly grazing the top of it and smirking when it makes Jamie arch into the touch.

McCree tucks his face under Jamison’s chin as he continues to work over his dick, lips mumbling half-thought praises onto the tender skin of his neck, unable to keep his own hips from snapping up, his poorly concealed hard-on straining in his slacks.

Jesse sneaks his hand underneath Jamie’s cloak, blunt nails dragging down his spine, the other man shuddering with overstimulation. The sweet, breathily little whines that slip off his tongue makes Jesse press open-mouthed kisses to his jaw, thirsting for any skin he could touch.

“Still wanna, kill me?” Jamie stutters, grinding into McCree’s hand.

“Not today, sweetheart. Got my eye on you, though,” Jesse whispers, his fingers sticky with pre cum.

Jamison’s breath quickens and his body starts to shake, and McCree knows to increase his pace, hand sliding from the base of his cock to the tip quicker, the dirty little gasps from Jamie no doubt louder than they should be.

“Look at you, unraveling so quickly. What would the Junkers think?” McCree murmurs into his ear, slowing down suddenly and watching Jamie writhe from the lack of touch.

He takes his time with it now, hoping Jamison won’t actually kill him, rubbing his fingertips down his cock and twisting his hand, Jamie staring at him with fire in his eyes as he bites his lip.

“Fuck you,” he hisses, edge in his words less harsh and demeaning as his voice shakes.

“You know, that’s exactly what I think you want to do,” Jesse says, once again returning to a hurried pace, knowing that it wouldn’t be long now; Jamison is literally coming apart in his hands.

“McCree…!” he groans, grabbing him one last time and kissing him with more intent and heat than ever before, tongue sliding into his mouth as cum spills into his hand.

Jamie breaks the kiss again, letting his head fall back against the side of the jail with a thud, legs shaking as he uses Jesse to keep his balance.

He’s panting, face glowing with sweat, eyes closed and arms slack around him.

He smiles.

Less like a shark and more like a human, soft expression something almost odd and out of place for him.

“My fuckin’ trousers,” he mumbles, Jesse taking his hand out finally and swiping cum off it.

“I’ll get you some new ones then,” McCree chuckles, leaning forward. “Wanna come back to my camp?”

“Wouldn't dare not to,” Jamie responds, still out of breath. Pulling himself off the side of the jail, Jamison punches Jesse in the shoulder, grinning wildly, and then the two of them sprint down Main Street and back into the night.

 


End file.
